Reminder
by Onyx
Summary: It's always bothered me that Gohan and Piccolo drifted apart later in the series - here's my answer. Also, at no extra cost to you, includes Piccolo's death through a young Gohan's eyes.


Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I have no money, bla bla bla, so on so forth – hey, does anybody ever actually read these things?  
  
*Note – Okay, people, here's my little red flag. This isn't a standard Onyx-type story. It's written in a different style, and it might be a bit on the shamelessly sappy side. Too much? You be the judge ^.^ Also, part of the dialogue here was taken directly from the episodes and from the manga, but it's a brief section, and I've added my own little twists and such, so you won't get bored. At least, I hope not.  
  
Oh, and one more thing – this involves Piccolo's death as viewed by a young Gohan. Please let me know if I've butchered that scene. I labored over those few paragraphs more than I usually do over whole stories, so I really hope it came out alright.  
  
Inspiration: It always bothered me that Piccolo and Gohan, who had once been so close, seemed to drift apart later in the series. That's what led me to sit down and scrawl out this fic. What happened just…happened. I didn't plan most of it. I hope it's worth your time.  
  
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Gohan glanced around at the pile upon pile of dust-coated boxes that extended as far as his sharp eyes could see, a wry, self-deprecating grin pulling at his lips. The choice that Videl had put to him had been clear enough: Clean out the attic or die. Seeing the mounds of ancient boxes rising like the Tsumi Tsubris from wall to distant wall, he began to think that death might have been the better option.  
  
Even so, he had to chuckle when he thought about "the attic wars," as he and Videl had come to call them. Normally, Gohan was fastidious to a fault…but he'd never been able to bear throwing anything away. Of course, he also couldn't bear to have any clutter lying about, so he'd box up the memorabilia and stuff it in the attic like a squirrel hoarding nuts.  
  
"Gohan," Videl would say, "I wouldn't be surprised to find some kind of caveman fossilized in the layers of dust in that attic." He'd always just laughed and shrugged. Finally, though, his wife had been able to take no more; she had even gone so far as to threaten to box him up and shove him in a closet unless he did something about the attic.  
  
Gohan laughed softly. Videl reminded him a great deal of his mother. Before, he'd always wondered how his father had managed to be so cheerful in spite of the fact that Chichi was yelling at him so often. Now, Gohan realized that the answer was fairly simple – it was easy to be cheerful when you knew your wife didn't mean a word of it.  
  
The man sighed – a big mistake. A dust cloud that was really more of a sandstorm swirled wildly around him. With a sneeze, Gohan stumbled backward…and tripped over one of the many boxes. He landed sprawled on his back, feet sticking into the air like a dead bug. "Well," he mused, sitting up gingerly. "That could have been a lot worse, I guess."  
  
Curiously, he glanced at what he had tripped over. Judging from the way the tape had crinkled like crackling ice, this was one of the older boxes. With a slight smile – this was as good a place to start as any, he supposed – he pried the lid open. The cardboard was brittle in his hands, but he paid it no heed; he was too intent on seeing what was inside. The first thing that caught his eye was a lump of bluish-purple fabric.  
  
"What in the world…" he wondered aloud, pulling the garment from the box. It unfolded in his hand like a falling window blind, and he found himself staring at his very first Piccolo gi – the one he'd worn when he was five. He couldn't believe how small it was; it probably wouldn't fit over one of his legs now. Gohan chuckled softly. "Pan'd love to see this. She's already driving me nuts, asking when I'm gonna teach her how to fight."  
  
It was true – his four year old daughter scarcely talked of anything else. Gohan had tried everything he could think of to distract her: he'd bought her dolls, dresses, and textbooks…all to no avail. Pan wanted to be a fighter "like daddy 'n grampa." She'd get so animated whenever she mentioned learning how to fight; it was like hooking a lightbulb up to a live wire. Flitting around the room like an orange-bandanna'd butterfly, she'd make expansive gestures, provide her own sound effects…  
  
The man couldn't help smiling a bit. Pan had fighting blood from both sides of her family – he should have known that he'd never be able to keep her out of it. He could delay it for a while, maybe, but never prevent it.  
  
With a last, fond glance at the gi, he laid it neatly aside and delved further into the crate. The very next thing he came across was a battered notebook.  
  
"What's this?" he mused, lifting the notebook cautiously, as if afraid that it would dissolve like a brittle leaf in his hands. Gingerly, he blew the dust from the cover. It was green, he noted – once the green of pine trees and thick carpet moss. It had since faded to the color of wet grass.  
  
Hesitantly, he turned the battered cover, straining his eyes to make out the heavy-handed, childish scrawl on the yellowed page.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ ___________________  
  
:Dear Diary…:  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ __________________  
  
Gohan blinked. "Wow, I'd forgotten all about this thing. Guess I'd better not read it now – if I get sidetracked, I'll be up here for years…and no search party'd ever find me." He started to set the book aside, but the pull of his curiosity proved too strong. Sitting down Indian-style, he began to sift through pages…and memories.  
  
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:I dunno how to start, exactly. See, I've been missing my studies for the last year, and I'm trying to catch up. The Japanese teaching guide that Mom uses says that I should be keeping a journal, so I guess I'd better.  
  
It's okay, though. Cause something really bad happened yesterday, an' I can't really talk about it much with anybody else. They don't understand.  
  
Mr. Piccolo died yesterday.:  
  
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The notebook flopped to the floor. It was several minutes before Gohan dared to pick it up again. For a moment, the memories that had jumped into his mind were so vivid that is was as if he were sitting again in that hospital bed, scratching out phrases to try to explain to someone what had happened. Even if that someone was only row after row of neat, blue lines on a sheet of paper.  
  
"I can't read this," he muttered, even as he took the notebook in hand again. "I don't want to read it," he said, even as his fingers nimbly found the right page.  
  
____________________________________________________________________________ ________________  
  
:Oh, wait, sorry. I guess you don't know who Mr. Piccolo is, huh? Okay. It's kinda hard to explain. He's really tall, an' he's green – he's got fangs, too. And really pointy ears. He only has four fingers on each hand, and he's got a really low voice. He doesn't talk a lot, either. Sometimes he yells, but he really doesn't say much.  
  
A lot of people are scared of him. I don't know why. I mean, yeah, sometimes he looks kinda scary when he's really mad or something, and he's just about the strongest person I know, and he acts really mean sometimes, like he doesn't care about anybody. He does, though, 'cause…well, I'll tell you later, cause once I start on that I'll never get anything else written.  
  
Mr. Piccolo's the one who trained me for the last year – that's why I'm kinda behind. But I learned a whole lot from him that doesn't have anything to do with verbs and stuff. He taught me how to fight and fly and all kinds of things. And it wasn't so bad staying with him. I mean, yeah, he made me spar all th' time and he gave me all these exercises to do, but he didn't treat me like a little kid. He let me stay up as late as I wanted, and he never talked to me in a baby voice like a lot of other grownups do. (You know what? I'm trying really hard to imagine Mr. Piccolo using a baby voice in the first place…and it just doesn't work.) He was really nice deep down inside, too – I guess I always knew that. He just didn't want anybody to know for some reason.  
  
The day before he…he died…I remember talking to him. You know what he said? He started like this, "Kid,…" An' you know what? I never minded when he called me 'kid.' I don't know why. I guess it was 'cause he never made it sound like he was talking to a little kid. That was just his name for me, that's all. That and "brat," sometimes.  
  
Anyway, he said, "Kid, you can put the sword down. We're not sparring today." And his voice was all cold-like, just like always. Whenever he talked, his voice reminded me of thunder on the mountains that I could see on really clear nights. It was distant and quiet, but really full of energy at the same time. (I told him about the thunder thing once. He just looked at me out the corners of his eyes and said I had too much time on my hands.)  
  
Not that I was upset about not sparring, believe me, but I asked, "Why not?"  
  
He looked at me kinda funny, like he expected me to know. "They come tomorrow."  
  
And of course, that reminded me that a year was up. A whole year already. And that reminded me that my daddy was coming back. So I gave Mr. Piccolo a really big grin. "Daddy'll be here soon, huh? Isn't that great?"  
  
He just kinda flinched. "Great," he answered, but he didn't sound like he really meant it. Hang on, I'll look up how to spell the word in my dictionary…ah! Here it is. He sounded 'sarcastic.'  
  
'Course, by then I knew Mr. Piccolo well enough to know when to let it drop. When he doesn't want to talk, he just doesn't – and it makes him really mad when you push it too far. I asked something else instead: "Mr. Piccolo, do you think we're gonna win?"  
  
He didn't even look at me. He was looking at the sky. It had gone all dark all of a sudden, like it was gonna storm. "I think we're going to give them the fight of their lives, Gohan. That's all you can ever hope for when you don't know the odds."  
  
I thought that was kinda weird, but there was something else I wanted to ask him. "Mr. Piccolo, are you gonna come visit me after the fight?"  
  
He made that funny "hmph" sound he makes sometimes. "No."  
  
That made my eyes sting, but I guessed that maybe he didn't want to see my dad. "So can I come visit you?"  
  
Then, Piccolo laughed. That really hurt, because I'd always counted on Piccolo not to laugh at me. I mean, he might yell sometimes, but he'd never laughed. Not even when I invited him to my birthday party. But I figured he had a good reason, so I waited to hear it.  
  
He finally stopped, shaking his head a little like he still couldn't believe what I said. "A year from now, brat, you won't even remember my name."  
  
And that really made me upset. I mean, he was my best friend! How could he think something like that? "Yes I will!" I said a lot louder than I wanted to.  
  
He gave me that little half smile thing he does sometimes – I think it's called a smirk. "You humans are so absent-minded. You might plan to come back, Gohan, but you won't. And even if you did," he added, tilting his head a little, "what makes you think I'd want to see you again, hmm? Maybe you'll come and I won't be here."  
  
"Yes you will," I said. "You know you will be."  
  
Mr. Piccolo snorted. "It's a moot point. Once your father comes back, you're going home. And if you think any of them would let you come out here looking for me, you've got another think coming."  
  
"But once I tell them you're my friend, and…"  
  
Then, Mr. Piccolo slashed his hand downward once, like he was cutting right through our conversation. "That's enough. We rest today. Tomorrow we fight. And if either of us happens to live through this, you'll see exactly what I meant."  
  
I was so mad at him after that. I mean, how could he think I'd just leave and never come back to see him? Even though I said I would?:  
  
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Again, the notebook struck the floor. It lay there, alone and forlorn, an island in the dust.  
  
Gohan stared blankly at it for a long, long stretch of time. "He was right," the man whispered softly, "it just took a little longer than he thought it would." How long had it been since he'd seen his sensei? He closed his eyes, furrowing through mounds of memories…gods, it had been a year at least…when had he stopped visiting him regularly?  
  
With a shaking hand, he picked up the notebook again, cradling it like a wounded bird. And he read on.  
  
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:I guess I got off the subject, though.  
  
We really did go to fight the next day, and all kinds of stuff happened. I'd write it all down, but it'd take years and years, and I've gotta leave for Nameksei soon. And this next part is what I'm really trying to write about.  
  
I never knew fighting was so awful. People died. Good people. Good people aren't supposed to die – in all the stories I ever read, it's the bad guys who get killed. I was so scared…I've never been so scared. And those two Saiya-jinn just laughing like it was the most fun they'd ever had. A lot of the fight was just a blur – there's so much I don't remember. It's like the memories are all blood-covered and slippery, and they flop out of my mind like fish whenever I try to grab one.  
  
But I remember looking at Mr. Piccolo when it was just me, him, and Krillen left, - Krillen was on the ground - and I remember thinking that my sensei looked scared. I mean, he wasn't shaking or anything, an' I don't think Krillen noticed, but…I did. His eyes got all funny, like they do sometimes when he's telling me something he knows really well. Like he knew what was going to happen. And that's when I really got scared. 'Cause I know Mr. Piccolo isn't afraid of much of anything.  
  
Then, I looked around to see what he was scared of, and I saw this big, white, glowing thing in Nappa's hand. It was a lot bigger than the energy blasts that Mr. Piccolo'd throw at me when we were sparring. I'd seen him training himself sometimes, too, and it was even bigger than the blasts he'd throw then. It didn't even look like chi anymore – it looked like Nappa just reached up and pulled the sun out of the sky.  
  
Then I saw that he was pointing it at me. And he threw it.  
  
That blast was so bright that I couldn't even see color anymore – just black and white, a whole lot of white. It was like a camera flash – no, like a hundred billion cameras flashing at once, like all the lightning in the world crammed into a lump. It was coming so fast I couldn't even see it, and I knew I couldn't get out of the way. It was a lot like that feeling you get sometimes when you play basketball and you throw the ball and you know it's not gonna go in.  
  
Then, all of a sudden, everything was dark. I thought maybe I went blind, or maybe the blast hit me and I was dead. Then I saw light around the black, and I recognized the shape. Mr. Piccolo was in front of me. I just had time to yell "NO!" right before the blast hit him. The light got so bright I had to close my eyes, 'cause it felt like they were burning out of my head.  
  
And he screamed. He screamed so loud I could hear him over the sound the blast made, a sound like a roaring train.  
  
I'd seen Mr. Piccolo get hurt before. I'd seen him lose a whole arm and barely make a sound. In this fight, I'd seen him get slammed into rocks, batted around like a sparrow in a wind storm,, stomped into the ground, and he never even said "ouch." But this scream…it wasn't like anything I'd ever heard before. It made me want to hide somewhere. And it got so hot, I thought I was gonna dry up like a raisin or start boiling or something. I think I was crying, but all the tears were eva…evaporating? From my face before they could fall.  
  
And just like that, everything got real quiet. I looked up, and I got this big grin on my face because Mr. Piccolo was standing right in front of me. I couldn't see real well – there were all these flashing lights 'cause the blast had been so bright – but I saw him look over one shoulder and give me that little half-smile/smirk thing he does sometimes. I was so glad he was alright…then, my eyes cleared up, and I saw…I saw…he wasn't. He had more blood on him than clothes, and those were all torn, and there was something about the way he was looking at me that made me want to start crying all over again. "Mr. Piccolo?" I asked.  
  
"S'alright, kid," he said. I guess he must have seen the look on my face.  
  
That's when he just fell over.  
  
It felt like it took me forever to get around to where I could see his face – it felt like I was running for miles and miles instead of crawling for maybe seven feet. "Mr. Piccolo," I said, real soft, "are you okay?"  
  
He was facedown, bringing his hands up under himself like he was gonna do a pushup, and he managed to get up a little bit from the ground so he could look me in the eye. "Gohan," he said, and his voice scared me even worse. It was low and rough like mom's gets sometimes when she yells too long. I think the word is horse. Anyway, he said, "Listen to me. I want you to get out of here."  
  
Right then, it felt like my heart was gonna rip its way out of my chest. "But sir, I can't just…"  
  
"No buts," he said, and his eyes were all funny again, but in a different way. They were looking right at me, but I got the feeling that he was seeing through me. "Go. Find your father – he's on his way."  
  
I couldn't make my mouth work just then, so I shook my head. And then I said, "Please, sir…we need you. Get up? Please?"  
  
I think he tried – his arms shook for a moment. Then he looked at me again. "Didn't I tell you to run?" He hissed, and he sounded really mad.  
  
"Y…yes…"  
  
"Then why are you still here?"  
  
Before I could answer him, he fell again, this time onto his back. That's when I knew that he wasn't going to get back up. And he couldn't fight anymore. And if I left him, those two Saiya-jinn were gonna do something awful to him. And it was all my fault for not being strong enough to take care of myself.  
  
"Please, sir," I said, and my voice was all full of tears. "Please don't…"  
  
I didn't finish because he looked at me first. He'd never looked at me that way before; his eyes were kinda arched, and he wasn't glaring or snarling or anything – there was even this little smile on his face. Not the smirk thing – a real smile. And there was something else, something that made my heart move again until it felt like it was camping out in the back of my throat. There were tears in his eyes.  
  
I don't know why, either – if it was because it hurt so bad, or if he was sad to be…be dying, or if it was something else. I guess I won't ever know, 'cause I don't even think he knew he was crying in the first place.  
  
I wanted to know why he gave his life for met, though. So I asked him, or I started to. "Why, sir? Why did you…"  
  
I couldn't talk anymore then, but I guess he could. He said this to me: "Ironic, isn't it? That I, Daimao Piccolo, the incorruptible evil, should die for my enemy's son. It's you, you know…you and your father…infecting me. But the time I spent with you really…wasn't so bad, kid."  
  
He took a really shallow breath, and his eyes got kinda glassy, like there was a real thin layer of oil over them. That was when I figured out that he couldn't see me at all anymore. I put a hand on his shoulder, just so he'd know that I hadn't left him.  
  
"I want you to…know something. I'm…proud of you, Gohan. And you're the only real friend I've ever…" He coughed once, really quietly – I think he was choking on blood. I wanted to tell him not to talk anymore, but my tongue felt way too big for my mouth, like it was a sponge. I couldn't make it work.  
  
"But as for your question…no one ever talked to me before. Not like you did."  
  
I couldn't see him so well then, either. My eyes were tearing up, and I thought that was why…then I realized he was fading, just like the others had. I wanted to scream, to grab him tight, to keep him from leaving me. But it wouldn't help. None of it would help. He was already going away – he looked like a slide projection when there's too much light in the room. I could see where he was, but no details anymore.  
  
"Gohan…" he said, and his voice was just barely even a breath. "Promise me you won't die."  
  
And then he was gone.  
  
That's why I gotta go to Nameksei – so we can wish him back. There's so much I wanna tell him. Like how sorry I am, like how much I miss him…most of all, that he was wrong, that I won't ever forget him just because I have other people in my life, and…:  
  
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Gohan slammed the cover shut – the book fell a third time from nerveless fingers. One drop of water, then another, swirled into the dust on the cover. He knelt there for a long time – as he had beside the body of his sensei all those years ago.  
  
It was a very long time before his thoughts stopped running around in confused little circles.  
  
Then, he stood up. He opened a window. And he started flying toward the desert like a black-fletched arrow. He wasn't thinking clearly; he just knew he had to find Piccolo. He didn't know what he wanted to say: that he was sorry, that he hadn't meant to cut him out of his life, that he'd never, ever do it again…maybe all of the above.  
  
He hit the sand running, his breath rising ragged in his lungs. His eyes flitted like twin hummingbirds over his surroundings – that tree, the mesa just so, the waterfall – hai, hai, the right place…  
  
Gohan couldn't help a grin from lighting his features; he hadn't realized until that moment just how much he'd missed his sensei. And he was going to see him. He looked around, Piccolo's name on the tip of his tongue…and was met only with the wind across the sand.  
  
That was odd. Always before, Piccolo had been there within an instant of his appearance. Where was he? Gohan felt his heart shudder once inside him like a plucked string. Any number of things could have happened…so far as he knew, he was the only one who'd ever come out here regularly. What if his sensei had gotten sick...or hurt himself sparring...or started to have a child and had something go wrong…  
  
Or what if…  
  
: "What makes you think I'd want to see you again, hmm? Maybe you'll come and I won't be here." :  
  
What if Piccolo just didn't want to see him anymore? What if he'd gotten sick of waiting?  
  
All the energy went out of the young man then, like helium deserting a balloon. He slumped, his chin striking his chest like a hammer onto an anvil. He'd been so sure that he could make everything right, if he just showed up…but Piccolo wasn't there. Maybe he never would be again. And Gohan couldn't really blame him.  
  
"Kid, for the gods' sake, stop moping around. Looking like that, you could depress a hyena."  
  
Gohan spun on his heels. Sure enough, there was Piccolo, just as he remembered him: broad shoulders squared, arms crossed, feet apart, smirk perched comfortably on his lips.  
  
For just an instant, Gohan felt a ridiculously huge smile distort his face – then, he hit his sensei with a flying tackle. He heard a whoosh of air as he hit the Nameksei-jinn – the impact drove Piccolo back a full three feet, but the Nameksei-jinn warrior was entirely too well-balanced to be knocked over. Gohan didn't think anything of it; he sank to his knees, his arms still wrapped around his friend's torso, his head resting against Piccolo's abdomen.  
  
The man was worried for a moment that Piccolo might be angry with him, but a soft chuckle from the older warrior immediately put that worry to rest. "Getting a little big for this, aren't you?" And a four-fingered hand tousled his hair.  
  
Gohan grinned again, tightening his grip on his sensei. "Not a chance. I missed you, Mr. Piccolo."  
  
A snort. "No, you didn't – hit me dead on."  
  
The young man barely suppressed a laugh. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."  
  
Quietly, "Yeah, kid. It's been a while."  
  
At that, Gohan released him. He stood up, suddenly self-conscious, looking at the ground. He brushed imaginary dust from his pants. "I'm sorry, sir."  
  
A very familiar 'hmph.' "You should be. Nearly broke my ribs on that one."  
  
"No, I mean…I mean for not…showing up for so long."  
  
For what felt to Gohan like an eternity, the only sound was the wind across the sand – the quiet whisperings of a harsh land, a place that would never speak aloud. Then, in an amused tone, Piccolo replied. "Hai, well you should be sorry for that, too. You're out of shape."  
  
Gohan bit his lip to conceal a grin. "I don't guess that's gonna last," he answered, looking up at his former teacher.  
  
Piccolo shook his head, lifting one corner of his lips in a smirk. "Not with me around, kid."  
  
Nothing had changed. That realization hit Gohan like…well, like Piccolo usually did when they were sparring. All those years of barely existent contact. All that time. And Piccolo was still there, still exactly the same. Or maybe not. If Gohan looked closely, he could see just a little bit of telltale shimmer in the corners of the Nameksei-jinn's eyes, just like oil on the edge of a pond.  
  
Piccolo really had missed him. He'd never admit it, Gohan was sure of that…but he didn't have to. Gohan knew anyway. Just like he'd always known that Piccolo cared about him. Just like he'd always known that there was no reason at all for him to be afraid of the older warrior. Just like, deep down inside, he'd always known that Piccolo would be there for him.  
  
And he knew at that moment, no matter what, he'd always be there for Piccolo, too. 


End file.
